Work Text:
Eyes fawn over his face, and they keep crimping around the edge, taut but not precisely so, dimming little effect on the affection dawns on him. Harry sees golden, and it is light in the open space, illuminating and spreading hope in the life that they share. He hums an old tune, and rumbles deep from within him is brought up like ceaseless bubbles, light, and quickening, when hands weave in the small of his waistline. Zayn is awoken, and golden Harry sees, pushing through those scary deep irides, holding all his attention. "Hi."
"Hi you too." Zayn's voice is blurred with sleep and a shade bit raunchy with dormant tension. He should be sleeping in, Harry thinks. He knows of the overflowing demand Zayn's thoughts always egg him on, keeping him up at gloaming dusks. Harry tries, sometimes, to stay up with him, and keeps him company 'til the Sandman comes by their sides and takes away their conscious states of mind, sooner or later, he is not sure.
A golden glimpse of skin greets Harry's ivory one, and the tingles they ignite are from the completion of jigsaw pieces, evidence of Time. Four dozen months and four dozen roses. They exist in his-and-his inner space. He used to be scared, and he used to be broken. Zayn used to breathe the words of hope when they parted, and Harry used to be silent in return, floating in a self-wallowing hole of sorrow.
The hands, tanned and buried in his unruly curls, that Harry had missed. The furrows of dark eyebrows outdented eye sockets and slowly eased in the moments of stolen quietness. Time caught on, and not for long, he woke up alone. Most nights, it was inevitable, and some nights, it ached; too fast had they gone. Because Zayn had left and with him the sound of the sweetest turmoil and the candid most memories. On that silent night.
But, golden sands of Time brown the colours of his life; it is ripened and brightened with lights.
Harry lies there on the white linen; it takes hold of him; he can feel it just right –
Everything lit up when Zayn responded to him. Or rather, to his calling of a new journey far away. They are birds now, singing, humming, and lightly swooping to a different light. He knows now when the sky opens to him, waiting, and he, Zayn too, would be there, would wait for him.
He can feel it, a span of warm brown skin, faintly salty and tangy with sweat, and warm lips meet his at the end of crispy gilded laughter. A drunken heart on his left chest caught his beating heart at a halt; firm muscles and well-buggered bodies. Four dozen tatted wings, painstakingly white on caramel golden skin,
He can see it, that the wings in him flutter as the lilting voice, tenor and mellow reaches out to the very walls of his soul. Like the beginning of an end to an end of a beginning. He sees the light busting from his innermost, which resonates with weightless bliss. He remembers lights on the stage, his head falling back, and his throat hurt, soaring and his eyes opened and saw,
A path of light, a tunnel. "I am with you, Icarus" he hears him sing.
And he opens up to it, and it welcomes him. There is no end, or rather he thinks, there isn't. Part of him that is broken squirms against the so, oh so golden embrace. And yet, that very same part is touched and handled with rising warmth across the blue, blue sky.
And it ceased. Patiently. With an old tune hummed. "There's a life that we share, there's a love and it grows. Until I see you again."
All of his, all he's ever known of who he is. Bring to light, finally. He is not alone, even if he spins out of his head. His feet touch not the solid ground, but away and far beyond the horizon. He greets bright eyes that shine warm like melting gold. Thousands of miles away.
"I know that it's bright, look through the light and see. It's meant to be." He forms into himself. Lacquered gold.